


His Design

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hannibal understood, however. Understood the art style and the foreign language Will converses in."</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Design

There's fear lacing the muscles of his neck, making the tendons push against skin. It only gives a predatory glower to a tired face and a case of a stiff back. The psychiatrist observes, sitting in the becoming body-heat-warmth of his chair, the pacing creature before him. Will Graham is less human (perpetually flawed and rather clumsy) and more of a force of nature. Nothing worthy of a status such as a deity, more like the feathers and wax that made up Icarus' wings: capable of great heights when directed but melts into a falling tragedy when pushed too high. That did not mean Will is prone to break but that he is this terrifying tool that can achieve impressive and impossible feats, meaning Will is becoming his favorite.

Yes, Will is a threat with his keen ability of being able to submerge himself into different personalities and roles. Yes, he shouldn't coyly play with the young professor by making him guess and stress over the diversity of organs missing. Yet how can he resist when Will flirts and compliments him incessantly to his class, in front of Crawford and the team and, finally, to him in his office? Will sees the artistry and grace with his work, always sounding more impressed than scornful. Hannibal can only find himself becoming more interested in this walking, too-empathetic teacher.

Will has no clue the danger he is getting himself into the more invested he becomes in the Chesapeake Ripper's case. 

"Is he getting under your skin, Will?" 

Will turns his head to look at him, eyes holding bruised bags under the red apparent vessels on his scleras. His body pauses in his fluid movements, a hand moving to adjust his glasses so their gazes can briefly meet. That gesture alone speaks of a budding trust, Will consistently avoiding the gazes of others yet not his anymore. Eyes are the windows to the soul and who knows what Will sees in his colleagues and others. Who knows what version of himself the professor sees. Hannibal fancies that if Will had a choice he'd go blind but the permanent backdrop of pitch black has the possibility of being another form of an internal Circle of Hell. 

"No. He's..." Will frowns to work his jaw, "Toying with me. Distracting me from what matters." His index and thumb slide up his nose, glasses pushed up, to pinch the bridge of it. "He's getting under everyone else's skin, however," his brows and shoulders rising in a shrug, the gesture looking strained. "Busy arguing over dead bodies if this is our killer or not. Not exactly tea time conversations." The pacing resumes, words clipped and stressed, each word forming bitterly on his tongue. Hannibal sees resentment. Frustration. Will is painting a picture the group cannot fully comprehend, and no matter how hard he talks of the symmetry of the piece or the colors mixed to create this exact shade, the message of the piece goes lost in translation. 

Hannibal understood, however. Understood the art style and the foreign language Will converses in. 

"What will you do when you find him?" 

It's a slight change in conversation, or at least the path of it. It eases Will, nodding to himself before he's making a rather slow dance to his chair. Dark eyes follow the expressions on Will's face, watching thoughts form and coil in his skull, only figments made available through the furrow of his brow to the pursing of his lips. If only he could crack the skull and pry the cranium apart so he, too, could see. What fascinations - hauntings - walk through Will's mind nudging and pulling him around? 

"That's assuming Crawford won't shoot him first," he retorts, eluding the question with a casual sort of ease as he takes his seat. The psychiatrist graces him with the slight of a smile, silently explaining that he would not be so easily evaded. Will's mouth twists, hands rubbing across his thighs as if to wipe off sweat or grime off of the palms. "Not kill him," Will admits with a sigh. 

Hannibal remains the perfect twist of passively curious and non-threatening, yet he must admit that there is a quickening of his pulse. 

"Because you can't or because you won't?" 

Will looks rather...guilty. He knows the correct answer and that it would explain to the world that Will is socially acceptable. That in that head of his there is a resonating sound of values and norms that is pleasing to society. This is why he enjoys Will, enjoys the grayscale he lives in. He is this being who feels and sees too much of what's behind the curtain than fights consistently for independence from it. Yet no matter how hard Will tells himself that this is wrong and this is right, he can't help but admire the surgical incisions and the blueprints of each attack. 

"I won't," he admits quietly before he's shooting him a challenging look, daring him to comment and pick him apart. Hannibal only nods and slowly begins to rearrange the conversation towards a nonsensical route such as his dogs to his students. It is not for Will's benefit, it's simply so he can let his lips curl into an easy smile. 

This is his design.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
